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55
I followed them back to their offices in West Palm, a typical bullpen with cubicles surrounded by other cubicles that had windows and doors. Those were for the commanding officers, including Drummond.
“Johnson, help him find what he’s looking for,” Drummond said. “Sorry I can’t give you the royal treatment you seem to deserve, Cross, but duty calls. I’ve got to make some phone calls, and I’ll get those murder books for you.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” I said. He disappeared into his office and shut the door behind him.
While Johnson went to get us coffee, I sat there listening to the familiar sounds of a homicide unit, detectives on the phone, others in discussion. I hadn’t been gone a week and already I missed it.
Johnson returned with two cups of decent coffee. “I can’t believe Alex Cross is sitting at my desk.”
I stood up. “Sorry.”
“What? No, sit down. It’s an honor. Now, what or who are we looking for?”
“Male. African American. Died roughly thirty-three years ago.”
Johnson turned all business, got another chair, and retrieved his laptop computer. “Name?”
“Paul Brown. Supposedly killed himself behind a church in Belle Glade.”
“I’ll look at county death records and see if he had a sheet with us.”
“You have digital back that far?”
“For all of Florida,” Johnson said as he typed. “State paid for it. Prescient, you ask me.”
I liked the young detective. He was sharp and full of energy. I didn’t know exactly what to think of Drummond other than that he had a dry wit.
“So what’s with Drummond’s scar?” I asked.
Johnson looked up. “First Gulf War. An oil well he was securing blew. Killed two of his men. Shrapnel laid his cheek open like a flap, burned and chewed it all up. Extensive nerve damage. It’s why he hardly ever has any expression. His face just sort of hangs there, right?”
“You like him?”
Johnson smiled. “Like? I don’t know yet. But I admire him. Drummond’s the real deal in my book.”
“Good enough for me,” I said.
“Paul Brown?”
“Correct.”
“And thirty-three years ago,” Johnson said, studying his screen and typing. “We’ll go plus or minus a year just to be safe. We have a date of birth?”
I told him my father’s birthday.
Johnson hit Enter. Almost immediately, he shook his head. “No match.”
“Leave the birthday blank,” I said, figuring that
my father must have been smart enough to leave everything about his old identity behind.
The detective played with it and hit Enter again. “There you go. Three of them.”
“Three?” I said, getting out of my chair to look at the screen.
Sure enough, three men named Paul Brown had died in Florida around thirty-three years ago.
